


Twelve Days of Stiles Loves Peter. (Kind of. Maybe.)

by melly_diamond



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, May/December Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 03:24:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13138059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melly_diamond/pseuds/melly_diamond
Summary: Peter's irrational dislike of a traditional holiday carol is the perfect catalyst for Stiles to give Peter twelve days that will live in infamy, or, at the very least alternately piss off and amuse his boyfriend. And while he's game for the challenge, he finds himself wondering why so much of the challenge consists of, well, game. Merry Olde England was surely a different time and place.





	Twelve Days of Stiles Loves Peter. (Kind of. Maybe.)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thilia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thilia/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, Thilia!
> 
> There's probably nothing that I could mail to you (at horrendous US shipping prices) that you don't already have, but one can never have too much Steter. So this is my gift to you - thank you for being the best friend, collaborator and partner in snark I could ever ask for. I adore you shamelessly - hope you enjoy!

_The day before the first day of Christmas …._

“Oh my fucking head,” groaned Peter, literally banging his head against the fridge (which was amusing, if inconvenient to the gangly kid making dinner, one Stiles Stilinski by name). “How I hate that fucking song!”

“What? No. How can you hate it? It’s a classic. If you’re going to hate something, hate “So this is Christmas." Or “Feed the World.” Or anything by Mariah Carey, ever.” Stiles eyed Peter who was still pressing his head against the sub-zero fridge that was basically every one of Stiles’ wildest food storage dreams come true. “But since you seem in despair, and the boyfriend handbook suggested that I try harder to engage you when you’re upset, why don’t you tell me why just why you fucking hate that fucking song?”

Stiles patted his shoulder and gently steered him to the pantry door to continue his head-banging, while Stiles went into the fridge to retrieve salad fixings, and Peter completed another cursory bang, then lifted his head. “There’s a boyfriend handbook?”

“Yep,” replied Stiles, then paused. “Well, I downloaded it in PDF format, but there’s probably a bound copy around somewhere. There’s a whole section on dealing with recalcitrant, Grinchy partners during the holidays.”

Peter grudgingly admired Stiles’ use of the word “recalcitrant” at this point in the day - or any point of any day, really - then huffed out a breath. “Think about it. Here’s some asshole in merry Olde England, giving his girlfriend all this shit that might have been practical once, but let’s face it, when was the last time you saw nine ladies dancing?”

Stiles thought. “Last month at the honky-tonk out near the airport,” he said. “You know, Scott’s bachelor party? He insisted on line dancing, and I gave it my best shot, but honestly, it disturbed my sensibilities; cowboy boots, bolo ties ... you've ruined me for common folk.

Peter didn’t want to smile, he really didn’t, and only didn’t through a force of near superhuman will. “Fine. Eight maids a-milking.”

“Well, you got me there,” admitted Stiles, starting to slice cucumbers. “I can’t say I’ve seen any of those around lately. I prefer my milk homogenized and in gallon jugs, but you’re missing the point of the song, hon. The point is his true love - or her true love - cared enough to give them all this stuff which, granted, meant more in that economy than our current one.”

He smooched Peter’s nose and when Peter sighed and stomped outside to smoke, Stiles formed a plan. A plan worthy of their first Christmas together. It would take work - it wouldn’t be easy - but it would be fun. For him, anyway.

You can’t please everyone, so you gotta please yourself; Ricky Nelson made a valid point.

_On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me … a partridge in a pear tree._

Thump … thump … CRASH!

Peter was going to KILL that goddamned cat, he really was. “It will be cute,” Stiles had said. “Rescuing is love. He was abandoned and left out to die by his mother. He needs a good home, babe. Be a good person. Wolf. Wolf-person.”

Personally, Peter thought that the mother cat had been spot on in leaving that little shit to fend for himself, and only wished the elements had gotten to it before Stiles had.

He got up from his chair, pushing up his sleeves, fully intending to do that fluffy ball of evil incarnate some serious harm.

Downstairs, though, a strange scene awaited him; the cat was fucking around, true, but Peter almost couldn’t blame him cause in the middle of his - their - tastefully decorated living room, sat a large, potted tree, complete with a bird nestled among the leaves, looking smug.

Peter had not known birds could actually look smug, but apparently so.

Stiles was standing there, looking pleased, occasionally shooing the small white furball with fangs and claws away from the trunk. “Hi love!” He chirped - Stiles, not the bird - and smiled for him. “Happy first day of Christmas!”

Peter stared. And stared some more. “Is that an actual pear tree?”

“Well … it’s a tree with pears,” acknowledged Stiles. “A full grown pear tree is a bit outside my budget, but the partridge is real!”

Closer inspection showed the pears were attached to the tree branches with ornament hangers but the bird was, indeed real, as Peter found out when he got too close and the partridge pooped on his new cashmere-blend sweater. And he could swear that damn cat was laughing at him.

(After the whole partridge fiasco - during which Peter had chased the partridge around the living room, tripped over Snowball, and landed in a heap, getting a big bump on the forehead and cursing all animal and bird-kind, Stiles was reluctant to go the live-bird route too soon again. So this one required some thought. Even though Stiles had kissed the boo-boo away to Peter’s great satisfaction).

_On the second day of Christmas, my true love sent to me … two turtle doves._

The smell coming from the kitchen was, well, something else. Peter wasn’t sure what else, but it wasn’t anything good. It smelled like burnt sugar, and a lot of it.

He paused outside the door to finish his cigarette, and debated whether he should go in at all. While they were mostly recovered from the pear-and-partridge debacle, Peter wasn’t sure he was up to eating another Christmas miracle. He personally thought the partridge was extremely tasty, especially with the pear stuffing he’d made from scratch.

Stiles had been horrified and ordered a pizza, and ordered Peter to brush his teeth for half an hour and to not burp around him for twenty-four hours.

The thought made him smile, and he entered the kitchen, pulling off his boots, only to spy his boyfriend, in an apron that looked like his great-grandmother might have made it in the early 1900’s, up to his elbows in chocolate, powdered sugar, nuts and various other ingredients that were scattered about and randomly spilled all over Peter’s granite countertops. Said boyfriend’s hair was standing on end, partially white, he was covered in drippings and had chocolate smeared on his cheek.

Peter had never seen anything as cute as this boy and more than anything, wanted to lick that chocolate off Stiles’ cheek with a long, lingering swipe of his tongue.

Stiles started when the door banged shut behind Peter and grumbled. “Shit, you’re back before I thought … I’m not done with your present.”

Peter looked around at the chaos. “There’s a present somewhere in here?”

“Yes! I mean, there will be when I’m done. And you will actually be able to EAT this one,” Stiles continued, giving Peter a hard look. “And not have to pluck it first.”

“You know as well as I do that that partridge had it coming,” replied Peter, and leaned against the counter, while Stiles rolled his eyes. “All right, smartass - go find something to do while I finish up here.”

“Am I being banished from my own kitchen?”

“Yes. Beat it. Or not, let me beat it. Later, though.”

An hour later, Stiles called Peter back into the kitchen and presented him with a lumpy, chocolate concoction that vaguely resembled two birds kissing; Peter raised a brow. “And this is …?”

“Two turtle doves,” said Stiles, wiping his forehead. “Turtle candy with nuts and stuff in the shape of doves, so … turtle doves.”

Peter looked at his absolutely trashed kitchen, disheveled boyfriend and the turtle doves, and leaned in, cupped Stiles’ face and kissed him. Hard. For a while. And yeah, he did lick that sweet, mole-dotted cheek clean.

(Stiles figured that Peter really couldn’t bitch about three hens; eggs and all, free range at that. What he hadn’t counted on was the, uh, accessories. But still - eggs! Peter might smoke too much, might swill coffee and Scotch like they were the mead of the Gods, but dammit, Stiles could get him to eat better. It was the small steps.)

_On the third day of Christmas, my true love sent to me ... three French hens._

Peter was snoozing the sleep of the just and handsome one lazy, surprisingly cool winter afternoon, when a sharp sound echoed through his yard, traveled into his window and shocked him out of a dream wherein he and Stiles were in a hot tub with a full tub of ice cubes on the side, playing “Hot Wolf, Cold Nerd.”

He rolled over and shoved his head in the pillow, but then the sound echoed again, and Peter flopped onto his back. “Stiles!”

No answer. Ugh. This time, he bellowed. “STILES!”

Stiles appeared in the doorway, hands behind his back. When his fingers were moving restlessly, he hid them, since that was his ‘tell’ and it was best not to give Peter ammunition before absolutely necessary. “Hi,” he said with a sweet smile. “What’s up, Your Surliness?”

“Did I just hear a rooster?”

“A rooster?” repeated Stiles, as though the word were new to him. “Around here?”

“Yes. It was this loud, shrill sort of …”

The sound echoed through the house again, and Stiles shifted. “Huh. Neighbors, maybe.”

“We have no neighbors,” sighed Peter. “For just this reason, mind you.”

“True, well … maybe the wind is carrying the noise and …”

Peter was rubbing his face, and suddenly dropped his hands. “Stiles? What are you not telling me?”

“Oh, ah … well, so many things, really. I don’t even know where to start because, you know, boundaries.”

Peter sighed. “Did you, by any chance, procure a rooster? And if you did, for what possible reason, other than to make me want to roll myself in wolfsbane and set myself afire?”

Stiles blinked. “Again? Have you not had enough of being barbecued? Three times wasn’t the charm?”

Stiles looked innocent, was so not innocent at all, and Peter was torn between growling and laughing out loud. “If I did, as you say, procure a rooster, I would have an excellent reason for it, and it would be romantic as well as practical.”

“I highly doubt it would be either,” sighed Peter. “Is there coffee?”

“Maybe. But only if you have an open mind about the three French hens that go along with the rooster.”

At Peter’s blank look, Stiles sighed. “You can’t have three French hens just laying around, you know; they need sex. For eggs. Fresh, free-range eggs, the kind you spend a fortune on at the market.”

Peter eyed Stiles and got out of bed, padding over to the window and looking down at the backyard, where three golden-colored hens appeared to be dancing in a circle around a giant, red-combed rooster, who, confided Stiles, was a bargain cause he was apparently blind and couldn’t tell the difference between night and day. Of course. Of course he was.

Stiles rested his chin on Peter’s shoulder. “Happy third day of Christmas,” he whispered, and Peter leaned his temple against Stiles’ head. “How do you know they’re French hens?”

“They use tongue when they kiss.”

Peter groaned and turned, burying his face in Stiles’ shoulder.

(The four calling birds nearly derailed the whole project; Stiles perhaps should have thought this out a little more, but four calling birds. What could call more and more intelligently than a parrot? Besides, they were pretty. And on loan, not a gift, though Peter didn’t have to know that.)

_On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me … four calling birds._

Peter awoke to an ungodly screeching that made the hair on his neck - and on his head too, as it turned out - stand on end. He sat bolt upright in bed, noting that the spot beside him was empty, and he groaned. Groaned, cause if this was what he thought it was ...

He got up and stalked naked down the stairs to the living room, where, to his horror, four brightly-colored birds were perched on his mantle. His soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend was also standing there, looking sheepish, yet oddly triumphant.

“Happy fourth day of Christmas, love,” said Stiles brightly. “As per tradition, here are your …”

Before he could finish, one parrot squawked, “Damn, son, look at that ass!”

Stiles’s eyes popped open. “Uh, guys …”

“Shake it baby, shake it!” chimed in another, and then another squawked “I’d like a piece of that!”

“Oh God,” muttered Stiles, and addressed the parrots. “Be nice!”

“Not part of the contract,” trilled another, and Stiles put his hands over his face, while Peter wondered if roasted parrot tasted anything like partridge. He was going to have to find out.

At their little pre-Christmas cocktail party that night, the parrots were a big hit; Laura was entranced and taught them to curse in French, and when one of the parrots landed on a fuming Peter’s shoulder and said to the general populace, “Did you know he’s cut? Foreskin is for losers!” Derek nearly died. He laughed - in fact, he laughed so hard and so long that he had to be sat down on the floor and his eggnog (made with their own free-range eggs, no less) taken away from him, lest it spray everywhere. 

To Stiles, who hadn’t known that Sourwolf had it in him, it was as though Santa had come early, and left goodies under the, erm, parrots, and the fact that Peter looked murderous was like opening said goodies and finding candy and scratch-off tickets. He enjoyed it for as long as he could, until Peter threatened to make feathered shish kabobs a festive holiday thing, and the birds fluttered off in high dudgeon.

“Cute idea, bro,” said Scott, clapped Stiles on the back,then chased after one of them who called him an assbutt, leading Stiles to believe that at least one of the parrot’s downtime past times was watching early seasons of “Supernatural.” He could not fault their taste.

Scott helped Stiles build a perch on the heated porch addition Peter had meant as a reading room and promised to google the best way to clean up parrot poop. He also got him a discount at Petco on food, a giant tube of antibiotic ointment used for bird bites and promised to not let Stiles go to voicemail the next time he called him, weeping.

Stiles figured that was as good as it was gonna get.

(The five golden rings perplexed him. Teacher salaries weren't much, and certainly wasn’t sufficient to afford gold of any kind that wasn’t plated and found in gumball machines. He couldn’t borrow - or beg for - any money from the only people besides Peter that he knew had any. Laura had a big mouth and couldn’t keep a secret, and Derek, was, well, Derek. He had to get creative. More creative, that was. And no fucking birds).

_On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me … five gold rings!_

Peter was going out that night to the annual Christmas party for Hale Enterprises, Inc.; he and Laura had dragged an ever-reluctant Derek out with them to go mix, mingle and drink at the open bar. Stiles had been invited, but he felt he’d stretched Peter’s good graces enough lately, and decided to go out with Scott and Allison instead.

They went to a bar - not the airport honky-tonk, thank God - and got, to put it mildly, plastered. Plastered enough to have their keys taken (Allison too), plastered enough for the bartender to offer to call them a cab, but they declined his kind offer, choosing instead to stagger home.

Peter was worried - and okay, amused - enough to offer to come and get him, but Stiles assured him he was fine, and if he wanted to come by and take him back home after the party, that would be cool. He made smoochy noises at Peter over the phone, making Peter laugh much more affectionately than he usually let on around other people, and hung up, ignoring Laura’s smirk and Derek’s eye roll.

Peter pulled up to the McCall’s a little after 2:00 AM - the party had gone long , and he drove carefully, mindful of the uncharacteristic few inches of snow, and no sooner had he started to get out of the car when a still-drunk Stiles opened the upstairs window, hung out of it and yelled to him.

“Peter! Baby! Look!”

Peter blinked and looked up. “Look at what, Stiles?”

“What I wrote! In the shnow! Over there!”

Shnow. Dear God, the boy was slurring, red-faced and seemed about to fall out of the window and plunge headlong to his death.

“Over there” could be anywhere at this point, but Stiles was waving his arm at the side of the house, and Peter tromped over to the side yard, and blinked when the light was turned on, and he could read what was written in the snow.

“I LOVE PETER,” it read, and then XOXOXOXOXO.

It was a sweet sentiment, thought Peter, and then realized that the “I love Peter” was written in the snow with a finger, cutting lines in the white powder, but the X’s and O’s were in yellow. The kind of yellow that you were never supposed to scoop up and eat.

“Get it?” hollered Stiles from the window. “Five O’s! Five golden rings!”

He grinned down at Peter, wide-eyed and drunk and very pleased with himself and Peter looked up at him, then down at the message and thought how amazing and incredible it was to be this in love with a dorky, brown-eyed, pink-lipped boy.

Stiles disappeared and then reappeared in the doorway, pulling the door shut behind him and galloped over to Peter, a booze-soaked baby deer on unsteady feet, and Peter caught him as he slipped; they both went down into the glittering snow and Peter pressed his cold lips against Stiles’ warm ones, until they were both flushed and heated.

When Allison opened the kitchen door the next day to get the paper, she saw Stiles’ words and smiled … then smiled more when she saw “GOD HELP HIM, PETER LOVES STILES TOO.”

 

(Six geese a-layin’? What was this ungodly obsession with fowl they’d had back then? Stiles understood food and dowries and all that, but damn, birds much? Stiles had been cute with the partridge, lucky with the turtledoves (cause chocolate) and after that … Peter was still smarting over the rooster not being impressed by a werewolf and chasing that wolf up a tree, and the parrots, well, the parrots had been banned from the house proper after a particularly salty exchange over bodily fluids and were currently cooling their heels on the porch. Stiles felt bad for them and pointed the little portable TV he kept in the kitchen out the window so they could watch “Animal Planet.” He was not overly shocked when the channel somehow got changed to WE TV, and Bravo. He just didn’t want to know.)

_On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me … six geese a’layin._

“Stiles, I’m freezing my ass off,” complained Peter, trudging along behind Stiles, who was practically skipping with his picnic basket along the trail. “What in God’s name prompted you to decide to have a picnic at this time of year?”

“It’s sweet! And festive! And I made pumpkin pie and brought extra whipped cream, just for you.” 

Peter paused. “You did?”

“I did.”

“You know, we could put that extra whipped cream to good use upstairs in our warm bed, rather than freezing our balls off out here,” Peter pointed out, catching up to Stiles - damn those long legs! But Stiles was undeterred. 

“Stop being a crabass, and just enjoy the brisk air, the crackle of branches and just the general merriness of the season,” Stiles ordered. “Or else.”

Peter wondered how his life had come to a mere child bossing his wolfy ass around like he was, well, the boss, then reflected that the way Stiles’ ass looked in those jeans probably had something to do with it.

Stiles stopped short and pointed. “Over there.”

He reached for Peter’s gloved hand with his Snoopy-mittened one and tugged him to a picturesque spot under a tree. He produced a camping blanket from the basket, and spread it out, then sat, pulling Peter down and handing him a cup of hot chocolate from a thermos, and yes, it was laced with a little brandy from Peter’s personal supply.

They leaned against each other, sipping hot chocolate and eating sugar cookies Stiles had made for his work’s cookie exchange, and while it was a perfect little outing, Peter still wondered what the end game was. Stiles was never without a plan.

“Hey look!” Stiles’ voice broke his reverie, and Peter glanced up to see a bunch of geese wandering over the footbridge. “One, two, three … six! How about that?”

Peter snorted into his cocoa. “At least you didn’t bring them to the house, thank fuck.”

“Hey, I know better. Geese are mean,” said Stiles, who had been stalked by enough geese to know this first hand. “But they’re kind of pretty in this setting.”

Peter had to agree, and leaned his head on Stiles’ shoulder, nuzzling him, and then looked over at the geese again, who were, erm, engaged in a familiar activity. All six of them. At once.

“See? Six geese …”

“ … a’layin. Charming. Other species-sex is where it’s at,” finished Peter, and Stiles laughed and pulled Peter closer, kissing him. “You would know.”

 

(Jesus, more birds? Stiles was at his wit’s end with these fucking birds. Swans. Swans. Where the fuck would he find swans, let alone swans a’swimmin?' In desperation, Stiles turned to the most oddly inventive person he knew - besides himself. Allison, who had declined to go into “the family business,” had trained to be a Special Ed teacher, and turned Stiles on to a site where preschoolers could learn counting by counting cute animals. And one screen was full of … yes, swans, who swam by in a pattern. Stiles was intrigued, thanked her, then stopped by Toys-R-Us to make a small purchase before heading home.)

_On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love sent to me … seven swans a’swimmin.'_

By now, Peter had learned to approach the stairs and living room with caution, and for that matter, the kitchen, both bathrooms and the downstairs hallway as well. But this evening, all seemed merry and bright, oddly enough, and when he peered around the corner, there was Stiles, curled up on the couch, in his glasses and Bumble pajama bottoms, grading papers and drinking tea.

Peter was instantly suspicious. Stiles looked sweet and absorbed. All was quiet. A fire was crackling on the hearth. There was no sign of swallows, larks, whooping cranes or woodpeckers. The rooster was passed out, presumably from exhaustion. The parrots had gone back to their previous owner - under protest, cause they liked the cable package, free food, and all the new body parts Stiles and Scott had taught them. Peter hadn’t shed a tear when they were packed off, considering that one had squawked “See you on the flip side, asshole!” as he left. And Peter had perhaps not shown much maturity by shouting back, “See you with a side of rice pilaf and a fistful of stuffing up your ass!”

But that had been yesterday, and this was now.

He approached Stiles warily, who looked up. “Hi baby,” he said cheerfully. “Have a nice nap? I made you a drink - it’s chilling in the fridge. Thought I might shake up some martinis, so it’s all ready when you are.”

“Martinis?” Peter perked up immediately. “Gin or vodka?”

“Vodka - Stoli. What, do you think I’m a savage? Go get ‘em. I’ll have one too. Olives for me, please, but I cut up some fresh lemon twists for you.”

Peter just stared at him. “God, I love you.”

Stiles grinned back. “I love you too; I’m just finishing up these papers and then I’m all yours.”

With that pleasant prospect in mind, Peter went into the kitchen, and Stiles set the papers aside and turned on the TV, that’d he’d already hooked up to his laptop. He pulled out the toy purchases he’d made and cued up the program.

Peter came back a few minutes later, carrying two martini glasses and stopped short when the big screen was lit up and pink swans were sliding across it.

He sighed and set them down on coasters and dropped down beside Stiles. “You say you love me,” he began, “you make me my favorite drink in the world, you sit there looking adorable and do-able, and then, just when I’m really feeling that Christmas spirit, you show me …”

“This,” said Stiles, handing him a Nerf gun. “I played with the program a little, and when you shoot seven swans a’swimmin,” you get a prize. And no worries, they’re super-soft foam missiles, won’t hurt the TV at all.”

“I get to shoot them and get a prize?”

“Merry Christmas, boo.” Stiles cocked the Nerf gun and wiggled his eyebrows at him; Peter shook his head back. “What’s my prize?”

“For every set of seven swans you blow away, I will take off one item of clothing. I have four items on, so you do the math. When I’m naked, you can ravage me, and I will do one of these three things for you,” he added, handing Peter a Cosmo sex quiz he'd filched from Allison. “You pick which one.”

Many pink swans went down for a good cause that evening, and Stiles wound up doing all three things - and loving every second of it.

 

(Stiles had grumbled about the birds, but where in hell was he going to find eight maids a ‘milkin? He had no idea. He didn’t think Peter would particularly appreciate being dragged on a dairy farm tour, and besides, Bessie was milked by a machine these days. So he pondered, and pondered, till his ponderer was sore, but lo and behold, he got an idea he had not had before! (with apologies to Dr. Seuss)

_On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me … eight maids a’milkin._

This Christmas was costing a fortune, but when she’d heard about this particular part of the plan, Laura had contributed to the cause, with the caveat that it be filmed for posterity and then handed over to her for editing. Since Stiles knew better than to look a gift wolf in the mouth, he gladly took her AmEx and set about making Peter’s holidays both merry and bright.

Really bright. Like, shining, stunningly bright and clean.

Eight maids would do that for you. Eight maids, even in a sizable house, will make things sparkle and shine, and when Peter came home from a little last-minute Christmas shopping - Stiles had earned a few more gifts with his performance of “Swan Lake” last night - he was greeted by eight comely maids, all dressed in little elf outfits.

He set his bags down carefully and rubbed his face, nodding to the maids, then shouting “Stiles!”

“Yeah Boss?” Stiles stuck his head down over the stair railing, to find Peter looking up at him with an expression Stiles liked to think was a mixture of fondness and admiration for his brilliant wit, but more likely, was a precursor to a bellow of “What the fuck is this now?”

Sadly, it was the latter.

“Maid service,” he chirped. “I’ve been busy, and you hate to clean, so I thought a little household help at this hectic time of year would not be amiss. The maids have done an amazing job, no?”

“They have,” agreed Peter. “And I suppose I don’t need to ask why there are eight lovely boys in my kitchen, but I fail to see the rest of the lyric.”

“I know, it’s not readily apparent - but gents? Tops off!”

In one practiced move, the very pretty boys all pulled off their elf coats, revealing toned chests with “ I <3 U Peter ” written across them in glittery paint, and on cue, they all posed for Peter, pecs, delts and abs, all flexed.

Peter was impressed - and okay, the little message might have wiggled between the ventricles of his cold, Grinchy heart - but he was a little lost as to the full meaning. “Uh, Stiles?”

“They’re milking it!” crowed Stiles. “Get it? Eight maids ..."

“... a’milking. Oh my GOD,” finished Peter, and to Stiles’ great delight, he cracked up laughed, hard enough so he had to sit down on a kitchen stool, and laughed more when one of the maids produced mistletoe and all eight smooched his cheeks and forehead soundly, before pulling their shirts back on and dancing out the door.

Peter was still stunned by the whole spectacle, and was feeling oddly warm inside - until he head a muttered “Laura is gonna LOVE this.”

“Stiles, you better not … Stiles!”

 

(Fresh off the success of his eight maids, and primed for the home stretch, Stiles made plans for the nine ladies dancing. This one would be fun for the whole family, he thought. Well, his family. People he called family. He invited his father, who even though he thought Peter was a sociopath doused in Burberry cologne, agreed to come, as did Scott, Boyd, Liam (with a fake ID) and, reluctantly, Derek. He was made more cheerful when Stiles offered to pay his cover, and for chicken wings, extra spicy. Even sourwolves could be bought, it seemed. In the spirit of the season, he also invited the female other halves of his pals, but they turned him down in favor of a wine bar and seasonal paint-by-numbers night. There was no accounting for taste.)

_On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me ... nine ladies dancing._

“Well, a strip club is a pleasant change of events,” said Peter from the second row of seats, where he and Derek were jockeying for the arm rest and generally shoving like four year-olds. “This is a Christmas tradition I can get behind, although the transportation is a little lacking.”

“Hey, don’t knock the vet van,” said Scott from the driver’s seat. “This van serves a noble cause.”

“It smells,” said Derek, wrinkling his nose, and while Peter had to agree, he also felt compelled to add, “So do you. Wet dog much? Or is that all the gel? You insist on using that Target brand that gives you helmet head, while possessing more than ample funds to buy better products - I just don’t understand you, nephew.”

A brief silence, broken only by a snort from Boyd. “I could beat your ass here and now, give McCall some practice in patching an opinionated asshole up,” said Derek, and Stiles sighed.

“No ass beating. None. Not now, not later. You two play nice - it’s Christmas!”

“Not for three more days. Plenty of time for him to heal,” replied Derek, cracking his knuckles loudly, while Peter rolled his eyes. “I’m literally surrounded by idiots. Literally. Except for Stiles, who, now that I think on it, is often an idiot as well.”

“You might want to be nice to the alpha driving your beta ass to a strip club,” said Scott, flashing red eyes in the rearview mirror, and Peter flashed his blue ones back. 

“Fine. And the alpha. Must you remind me of my current status and your utter unfitness for office?"

“As often as I can,” said Scott calmly, and Stiles smiled into his hand. “Look at this; from a duel to the death in a Mexican tomb where Scotty’s been turned into a Beserker, to a Christmas trip to a strip club. What a wild ride this life is.”

A strangled sound from the backseat indicated what passed for a laugh from Derek, and Scott smiled over at Stiles, fist-bumping his bro.

The club was packed with college kids on break, businessmen killing time on trips and locals for whom pasties and g-strings on their own wives were either a beautiful but unattainable dream, or else a horrible marital nightmare. Stiles had reserved a table up front and to the side, giving them a sweet view of the stage, and they met the others at the bar and proceeded to the table. Stiles was absolutely sure that the only reason Liam got in anywhere was because of his freakish ability to grow lots of facial hair. Without that, he’d be screwed.

Stiles wasn’t jealous. Not at all.

There was no dramatic denouement this time, no elegant reveal, which was a bummer, thought Stiles, who had kind of started to enjoy the challenges presented by giving gifts to his true love. But there were nine ladies dancing, all right. Shifts of nine, actually, and even a gay boy like him could appreciate carefully made up, real-hair extensioned and perfumed girls.

Laura, as it turned out, got a lot more film to edit that evening, as Stiles sent her pictures of Peter getting down with a lap dance, and Derek doing the bump and grind with Liam of all people; Liam was in love and Derek was wasted. Boyd was approached for either a bouncer or dancer job, starting immediately, and Scott showed everyone a picture of Allison dressed like a slutty Mrs. Claus that was his phone background. And then called her to tell her he looooooooved her.

Stiles sat on Peter’s lap - once it was vacated - and kissed his forehead, looking around at his dumb, drunk friends - and his not-dumb, but drunk father, who seemed ready to run off with a charming young lady named Sateen - and had to smile, leaning his cheek against the top of Peter’s head.

 

(The leaping Stiles could have handled, but the lord aspect was a problem. He hardly thought ten versions of Jesus were about to appear and leapfrog around, even if he prayed a lot. A lot, a lot. So this was a poser, but after a little bit of deep thought - and okay, a little of Scott’s favorite herbal remedy, taken at his leisure out near the chicken coop - he thought of something that could be stretched to encompass such an esoteric present.)

_On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me … ten lords a’leapin._

Stiles was pretty sure he had never in his life watched C-SPAN, let alone C-SPAN 2, and after about ten minutes, he understood why. It was mind-numbing and Stiles was sure his teeth had fallen asleep just imagining hours on end of British Parliament. But still, a lord was a lord, and he didn’t know where to find any others, now that he’d ruled out the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

“What are we watching?” Peter’s voice made him jump - he would never understand how someone who usually clomped around like a rhinoceros in wooden clogs could sneak up on him like this.

“Jesus, dude,” sighed Stiles. “C-SPAN 2.”

Peter sat down beside him on the couch and looked curiously at the screen. “May I ask why?”

Stiles thought, then sighed again. “Well … okay, you know how I’ve been doing this "Twelve Days of Christmas" thing for you?”

“I’ve noticed it in passing, yes,” replied Peter, sipping his tea. “I think the fake pear tree was the first hint, and then of course, the parrots and semi-naked young men in my kitchen just intensified the mystery.”

Stiles scowled at him. “I’ve been super-creative so far and who else would go to all this trouble for your ungrateful ass? No one, is who. But I have to admit, the lords have me stumped. I mean, there they are,” he said, gesturing at the screen. “But unless a game of hoops breaks out on the floor, I think we’re outta luck on the leaping. And I was doing so well.”

He looked so downcast that Peter set his tea aside and pulled him into his arms, dropping kisses all over his face. “You’ve done splendidly, and you’re right, no one else would go to so much trouble for my ungrateful ass; you are amazing and I do not in any way deserve you.”

Stiles cupped Peter’s cheek in one hand and smiled at him. “You do not.”

Minutes passed, an hour perhaps - a day at most, and Stiles was lost in Peter’s eyes and tongue, and only when he was forced to pull back to breathe, did he pick up on what was going on on C-SPAN 2.

A fierce Brexit debate had broken out, and it had gotten physical, the lords brawling like soccer hooligans on the floor of the House, and Stiles stared, entranced - then cheered when a particularly agile lord vaulted over another in order to pummel a third.

Stiles cheered. “One down, nine to go! Go Wales!”

Peter groaned and leaned back, rubbing his face, but had to admit, as a second to making out, watching British gents of a certain age beat the shit out of each other was hard to top.

He was sure Stiles would still try, though.

 

(Stiles loved his job, he really did. Kids were a riot in general, and he was lucky to have a group this year that loved science, and appreciated his sense of humor, so he was happy to go into middle school every day, and he even liked all the extracurricular activities that teachers were required to be part of - even the school Christmas pageant/concert. And he was very pleased when he realized how well the holiday concert would work with his plans. Very pleased indeed. Now, if he could only get Peter to said concert, because Peter felt that activities involving children were about on a par with being force-fed creamed liver and onions and adamantly refused to have anything to do with his boyfriend’s unfortunate choice of occupation. He would have to give him incentive.)

_On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love sent to me … eleven pipers piping._

“Absolutely not,” said Peter firmly over coffee and morning cigarette on the newly cleaned-of-parrot-poop enclosed porch. “You know how I feel about anything involving children and their annoying parents.”

“I do, but you wouldn’t be going for them, you’d be going for ME,” wheedled Stiles, stealing the cigarette for a quick drag. “You’d be going to support me because you love me and respect my work.”

Peter took the cigarette back. “I do love you and I respect education, but why you choose to work with pimply little miscreants who find farting the height of hilarity is beyond me. I mean, you’re more than bright enough to be working on a college level, and yet you trundle your fine ass off to Pre-Teen BO Middle School five days a week. Isn’t that enough?”

Stiles eyed him thoughtfully. “What if I make it worth your while?”

Peter eyed him back. “I can already convince you to give some up whenever I want.”

“No, no. I mean, you can, but I have something better.” Stiles paused for effect. “If you come with me tonight and sit there and at least don’t scowl outwardly, I will let you throw out ONE piece of flannel from my closet. You know you can’t resist that.”

Peter had to admit, he was intrigued, but felt he was entitled to haggle. “One piece of tragic flannel AND one ratty geek t-shirt.”

Stiles winced - ow! “One flannel, and one pair of embarrassing socks.”

“No. One flannel, one t-shirt. Take it or leave it.”

Goddammit, thought Stiles. This seemed like a pretty high price to pay for Day 11, but he couldn’t exactly stop now. He was in the home stretch!

Jesus, the things he did for love.

“All right, fine. One flannel, one tee, and you accompany me to the Christmas concert tonight and maintain a semi-pleasant expression and no eye-rolling. None. Deal?”

“Deal.” Peter smiled evilly at him, and Stiles wondered again why he found that so fucking hot.

At seven PM, both nicely dressed and fortified with eggnog that had a wee bit of a kick to it, Stiles and Peter entered the gym of Beacon Hills Middle School, and took seats off to the side, where teachers and their significant others were assigned spots. Peter was resigned to several off-key renditions of “Silent Night,” “Away in a Manger,” and “What Child Is This?”

More like “What Fresh Hell is this?” but whatever. He had gleefully burned a horrendous brown flannel monstrosity earlier, chased with a sick, puke-green “Good Robot,” tee, while Stiles teared up in the corner. He had vindication. He had eggnog. He had a flask. He could do this.

Until the 5th grade and their recorders took the stage, and Peter turned on Stiles like a viper. “You didn’t say anything about recorders,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “You know how I feel about those abominable pieces of cheap plastic shit!”

The teachers around him seemed to agree, and Stiles merely looked up from the program. “Didn’t I?” he said innocently enough, brown eyes wide behind his glasses. “So sorry.”  
Peter glared at him and Stiles grinned down at his program. “Wow, look, there are eleven of them. Imagine that! What luck!”

“God, I hate you so much,” growled Peter, and folded his arms across his chest, maintaining the pleasant expression with great, great effort.

“I know you do, love. And I hate you too.” Stiles reached for his hand and squeezed it, and finally, Peter squeezed back. “You’re an asshole,” he whispered in his ear, and Stiles laughed. “Yeah, but I’m your asshole, babe.”

Peter was cheered when one kid missed four notes in a row, and threw his recorder at the music teacher, then said some very un-Christmassy words before stomping offstage. Now that was a kid he could love.

 

(Stiles could not deny that he was grateful when it was Christmas Day; he had had fun doing all this, and it was an experience, and most of all, it had been amazing and funny as hell to watch Peter experience a true Stilesian holiday, but damn, after this vacation, he was gonna need a vacation. He hadn’t really thought it fair to jam the twelve drummers drumming into the concert as well, and frankly, there were only six drummers and only one of them had any concept of rhythm or beat. So that left him with one viable option. It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t mean. It wasn’t designed to annoy. In short, it was considerably light on fun, but heavy on comfort. And wasn’t that a big part of Christmas, after all?)

_On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me … twelve drummers drumming._

Peter had no idea what to expect for Christmas Day, but he awoke to silence, the rooster not due to be noisy till half-past two - God love his diurnal disorder - with pale sun streaming in the window and a sleepy boyfriend dozing beside him in the large bed. He looked around, but there was nothing but peace and calm.

Stiles stirred and moved closer to him, and buried his face in Peter’s armpit, cause he was a very, very weird boy. And Peter loved him more than he’d ever loved anyone, more than he thought he was capable of loving anyone.

Stiles finally opened his eyes and smiled at him. “You want coffee?”

At Peter’s mute nod, Stiles rolled out of bed, kissing his shoulder before he stood, and went downstairs; moments later, the smell of dark holiday roast filled the house, and a bit later, Stiles reappeared with two steaming mugs of java and settled back into bed with Peter, turning on the Disney Parks Christmas Day Parade, and snuggling in next to him. In companionable silence, they watched floats, dancers, cartoon characters, and marching bands.

All with twelve drummers drumming.

Peter smiled down at Stiles, who had a soft smile on his own lips, and wrapped his arm tighter around him, Stiles’s head on his shoulder, as the day grew brighter and burst all around them.

~ End ~

 

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End file.
